To every poetry editor ever

The time it takes drags like a broken foot,
send me rejection instead of silence,
it’s as if you’re put out by my output,
I upload, click, forward the cold science
of my art to inboxes fed obese
by fretful parents waiting in long lines.
I won’t ask how my offspring are, they’ve ceased
to miss me, won’t have changed much with the times.
I never should have let them go to your
unfeeling homes though, to wait for their slot
on oblivion’s trapdoor. Reject? Sure!
At least you’ll find mine patient; but they’re not
the one’s craving the occasional bow…
My darlings can do nothing for me now.